


Two Idiots and a Dog

by Ryah_Ignis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dogs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 15:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13149117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryah_Ignis/pseuds/Ryah_Ignis
Summary: Dean Winchester has three jobs to get his little brother through college:  bar-tending, auto repair, and the weirdest job he's ever taken in his life--handling a dog for a new startup, Rent-a-Pooch.Castiel Novak is a world famous author, but his most famous novel was never supposed to have the sequel his editor demands.When Cas begins renting Rumsfeld, a Rottweiler, and his handler, Dean, they both somehow find what they were looking for.





	Two Idiots and a Dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celebreultimaverba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celebreultimaverba/gifts).



> For celebreultimaverba, who deserved this fic 925 days ago. (You think this is an exaggeration, but it is not. I started typing out this nonsense on June 14, 2015) Merry Christmas, and thank you for putting up with both my procrastination and tendency to type in all caps for up to ten minutes per conversation. Love you! <3333

The first thing Sam had said when Dean told him about the new job was, "But you don't even like dogs!"

Which is true.  He isn't like Sam, who will probably adopt six the second he has the chance, but it isn't like he hates them or anything.  They're like squirrels or chipmunks or whatever.  So long as they're not eating off the bird feeder that Sam had made him hang outside the apartment three years ago, they're just fine by Dean.  Doesn't mean he wants one around, though.

It's not like he took this job because of his deep love for dogs anyway.  There'd been an opening in the paper and according to Google, it's a growth industry.  Who knows?  He might be CEO someday.

CEO of Rent-a-Pooch.  He can deal with that (though he’ll have to change the name).  Stanford doesn't come cheap, even if your genius of a younger brother has scraped together all the scholarships he could find.

"New hours?"

Bobby frowns down at Dean's request, crumpled because of the several hours that it's spent in his pocket.  Dean winces a little at the expression on his face.

"Yessir.  I wouldn't ask, but--"

Bobby arches his eyebrows. "This isn't another job, is it, boy?"

"Uh."

That's all Bobby needs to hear.  He pinches the bridge of his nose and stares down at the paper, shaking his head. Dean scuffs the toe of his boot into the shop floor.

"You're gonna work yourself into the ground."

Ever since Sam went off to his first year a few weeks ago, he's been working at Bobby's auto repair in the mornings and afternoons and then Ellen's Roadhouse for the graveyard shift.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

Seeing the last bill on the tiny kitchen table had motivated him a bit.  John Winchester's legacy had amounted to a couple of empty beer bottles and an eviction notice.  Dean is determined that Sam's will be better.

So, rent-a-dog.

“All right," Bobby says grudgingly, shoving the paper in his pocket.  "You need help, you come to me, you hear?"

Dean knows in his heart that there’s no way _that_ is happening, but all he says is, “You’ve got it, Bobby.”

* * *

“I’m finished!”

Gabriel carefully pushes a bowl of frozen yogurt over to his brother, who currently has his head lying flat against the table in between them.  Castiel doesn’t move to take it.  Something is really wrong if he isn’t eating his yogurt.

“Washed up at twenty-four.  Ouch.”

Castiel raises his head just far enough to glare at him before dropping it back down again.  Gabriel plucks a cherry from the top of his brother’s yogurt and pops it in his mouth.

“The publishers want a sequel rough draft by December.  It’s September, and I have an _outline._ ”

“You’ll think of something,” Gabriel reassures him.

He groans again.  “ _False Heaven_ wasn’t supposed to have a sequel.”

Gabriel gapes for a few seconds, then fills his mouth with another cherry.

“Wait, you meant for the end to be your main character surrounded by a hail of bullets?”

“It was a metaphor!”

He shakes his head.  _Writers._ As far as he’s concerned, Castiel could turn in a manuscript written on napkins and it would still be better than half of the stuff on the market. 

“You just need a change of pace.  Paint your kitchen.  See if you can stuff anymore flowers in that garden of yours.  Rent a cabin for a week.  Shake it up.”

Castiel merely groans.

* * *

 

A few days later finds Dean with his new partner sitting in the backseat of the Impala.  The red-headed entrepreneur/boss/chief organizer/receptionist at the Rent-A-Pooch (Charlie, Dean thinks her name was) had given him the address. 

He looks back at the Rent-a-Pooch “specialist”.  Dean has put a towel down, but it’s clear that the dog has absolutely no regard for upholstery.

“You’d better pay well, buddy,” Dean tells him, pulling out of the parking space.

His name is Rumsfeld, and he’s the kind of dog that looks like he could turn you into Bacon Bits.  But he rolls over every time someone comes near so he can get a belly rub, so Dean thinks he’s probably good.  And right now, he’s getting drool all over Dean’s seats.

How much is he getting paid for this?

Dean sucks in a breath as they pull up outside the address.  The wraparound porch has more flowerpots than floor space, several wind chimes, and a netted porch swing.  Rumsfeld hops straight out of the car and starts trotting for the entrance.  With his hand on the leash, Dean has no choice but to follow.

The stairs are rickety, but the porch is freshly painted.  Dean is a bit hesitant to ring the doorbell, but Rumsfeld apparently shares none of his reservations.  The dog starts to scratch on the door.

“No—wait—you’re going to mess up the paint!”

Dean has his hand wrapped around Rumsfeld’s collar and his heels dug into the floorboards, trying to haul him back when the door opens.

“Oh, you’re early.”

Dean straightens up, clearing his throat.  Rumsfeld, at last, chooses then to sit down at his feet. 

Oh _no._

Oh, he is screwed.

Because, apparently, his vocal chords refuse to work around attractive people, it takes Dean a few seconds to stumble over his response.

“Traffic wasn’t as bad as I thought.  But I can wait here if you—”

“No, it’s fine.  Come in.”

Dean makes his way into the foyer, which isn’t so much a foyer as it is an airport.  There are at least three suitcases stacked on top of each other, half unpacked.  The man (Castiel, Dean remembers from the papers and what kind of name is that?) hurriedly ushers him past the mess and into the slightly tidier kitchen.

“So, uh I’m Castiel and this—um.  The kitchen.” He gestures a little uselessly at the tea kettle on the stove.  “Do you want tea or coffee or something?”

“Dean,” he finds himself saying, almost automatic.  “And this is Rumsfeld.  And I’m fine.  Thanks.”

This is going to be a _long_ two hours.

Without the tea kettle to occupy him, the poor guy flusters around the kitchen for a few seconds, throwing dried dishes out of sight.  It’s pretty clear that he’d been banking on the ten minutes that Dean had been early to clean up a bit.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want something?”

“Dude, I’m just here to watch the dog.  Get on with your day.”

He leans down and unlatches Rumsfeld.  As if he’s been born to do it, the dog trots along behind Castiel as he tries and fails to tidy up the clutter in the kitchen a little bit.

Finally, he gives up and sits down at the table where a laptop is already waiting.  He flips the top open and sets to work on something Dean can’t see.

His hunt-and-peck method of typing is kind of adorable.

Whoa.  He is a _professional_ and Dean is _not_ going to get distracted.

For his part, Rumsfeld curls around Castiel’s feet and falls asleep.  Both dog and human seem perfectly content with the arrangement.  For the life of him, Dean still can’t figure out what on Earth would possess someone to rent a dog.

“You write?”

He doesn’t know why he says it, but Castiel doesn’t seem unhappy when he raises his head to answer.

“I published my first novel last year.”

Dean wonders if it was successful, but he doesn’t bother asking.  Maybe Sam will know.

* * *

“Have you ever heard of a writer called Castiel Novak?”

Dean can’t see his brother, but he can almost feel Sam rolling his eyes from several states and several hundred miles away.

“Have you been under a rock?” Sam challenges.  “Dude, you can’t go three feet into a bookstore without seeing his name.”

It’s not like he’s had a lot of free time for reading, but Dean doesn’t say it.  Instead, he sits down at the battered old PC and calls up the internet, phone tucked expertly between his shoulder and ear.

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.  Just thought of the name.  Thought maybe he was a classmate of yours or something.”

Sam snorts.  “No.  Hey, speaking of classmates, Bobby called the other day.”

Dean is suddenly very glad that he and Sam aren’t face to face, because he definitely would have seen the wince.

“He said you took another job.  I thought we talked about this!”

He knows it’s pointless to argue with Sam when he gets this preachy, so Dean leans back in the computer chair and waits for the webpage to actually display something.

“I can get a coffee shop gig or something and you can get some credits under your belt.”

“No,” he snaps firmly.  “You’re going to study, you’re going to get your homework done and you’re going to ace that LSAT—”

“—which is four years away.”

“Great.  Lots of study time then.  Bye!”

And before Sam can protest, Dean slams the old flip phone shut and shoves it into his pocket.  The argument is definitely not over, but Dean can dodge his calls for a couple days at least before Sam pulls out the big guns and starts calling Ellen.

He types _Castiel Novak_ into Google, feeling one part stalker and one part investigator as he waits for the page to load. 

_89,100,000 hits._

No way.

Hesitantly, Dean clicks on the first link, which leads him to, of all things, the New York Times bestseller list.  Feeling just the tiniest bit like his eyes are going to fall out of his skull, he scrolls down.

_“False Heaven is everything that the thriller genre has been missing over the past few years…gut-wrenching, heart-stopping, exhilarating…but also heartfelt, passionate and true.  A must-read.”_

_-Kirkus Review_

_“Everything that I look for in a novel.  Tight and gripping.  Novak’s deft hand is evident in every line.”_

_-James Patterson, New York Times bestselling author_

_“Castiel Novak has established himself as the nation’s forerunner in the thriller genre.  One of the most powerful voices in the genre today.”_

_-Los Angeles Times_

_False Heaven_.  Now that he thinks about it, Dean might have seen the book lying around a few times over the past year.  If a _few times_ translates to every frigging time he turns around.

What is this guy doing in Kansas?

* * *

 

“Hello, Rumsfeld.  Hello, Dean.”

Rumsfeld trots into the kitchen without any further invitation.  Dean tries very hard to look as if he hadn’t just spent the last night reading _False Heaven._  It wasn’t usually Dean’s style, but he’d been able to make an exception.  Castiel has a way of telling stories.

They make their way into the kitchen, which is a little neater than yesterday.  Dean seats himself in the same chair, but Castiel doesn’t move to take a seat.

“I was thinking we’d take Rumsfeld for a walk, if that’s all right?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

Dean hands over his leash and Castiel leads the way out the back door.  The garden has a barely-tamed look to it.  It seems as though at one point Castiel tried to put up a couple of trellises to block it off a little, but they’re completely covered now.

“Wow,” Dean says.

He can garden _and_ write.

_Professionalism._

“It’s a hobby.”

They make their way out of the garden and on to the street.  Rumsfeld trots happily from mailbox to mailbox, tail wagging back and forth. 

“So do you just really love dogs?”

“Um, no.  College.”

Castiel loops Rumsfeld’s leash around his wrist again as they turn on to a slightly busier street. 

“What are you majoring in?”

“No, not me.  It’s my brother.”

They end up talking for almost three hours, completely forgetting that they had to turn around to get back to the house.  Dean tells him about Sam, how he’s been talking about this girl named Jess for five weeks straight, how he’s smart as a whip and how much Dean believes in him.

Castiel tells him about his family too.  He has an older sister, Anna, who’s a company executive (“You’d think she worked for the government with how secretive she is about it.”).  His older brother, Gabriel, runs a frozen yogurt shop. (“My parents weren’t overly pleased, but he’s done well for himself.”)

When their time is up, Castiel apologizes profusely for the overtime and pays him extra.  Dean calls him _Cas_ and though neither notice, it sticks.

* * *

 

“Bobby tells me you picked up another job.”

It’s half past two in the morning and Dean and Jo are wiping down glasses in the Roadhouse shortly after the last patrons emptied out.  Jo shoots him a teasing grin and he throws his dishcloth at her.

“Is there anybody he didn’t tell?”

“Mom.  And don’t you think for a second I won’t use it as blackmail material, ‘cause I will.”

The moment Ellen finds out, it’s all over.  She’ll send in his resignation herself if she thinks he’s working too hard.  Which she almost certainly will.

“Do you even sleep?” Jo asks.

There’s no doubt in Dean’s mind that Jo will one day be just as mother bear as Ellen.  She’s well on her way already.

“I don’t start at Bobby’s until eight, so…”

Jo does some quick math.  “That is _so_ not enough.”

He shrugs. “I’ve got it.”

She begins to stack the glasses and the clinking sound of glass on glass fills the silence.  Dean leans back on the bar and lets her.  Try as he might, he can’t move faster than Jo around the Roadhouse.  She jokes that it’s in her blood.

“How’s it work anyway?”

“The dog thing?  The clients just call the place up, get matched with a dog and handler duo and then we get paid by the hour.”

Jo’s eyebrows shoot up.  “Wait, so you get paid to lead a dog around?  I think I just found my new gig.”

“The dog’s pretty cool.  So’s the guy who keeps calling.”

He’s spent the last six afternoons straight at Cas’s house.  They’ve gone on a couple of walks, but mostly, he writes.  It’s a bit of a group process, Dean finds.  Every so often, Cas will yell a line at him and ask if it’s any good (it usually is) or ask for a synonym (that Dean can usually think of).  It’s peaceful.

“Ooh, office romance,” Jo teases, lightly knocking her shoulder against his.

It was easier when they were kids.  She has to reach up to do it now.

“He says the dog is good for the writing process,” Dean says, before she can get carried away.

“I think he thinks _you’re_ good for the writing process.  You’d have to be crazy to rent a dog more than once in a row.”

“I know, right?  What’s up with that?”

Jo shrugs. “Hats off to whoever had that idea.”

“Her name’s Charlie.  I’ll introduce you to her some time.”

Before Jo can ask if Charlie’s cute (because he knows this kid every bit as well as he does Sam), Ellen walks back in and they both snap back to attention, wiping down the counter.  She knows they weren’t working, Dean can see it in her face, but she doesn’t say a word.

* * *

“Dude, no.  That’s not how you roll a pie crust.”

A rather frazzled Cas slaps the pie crust dough down on the countertop.  Rumsfeld sits at his feet, waiting for a bit of dough to fall.  Dean gets out of his seat and tugs the dough out of Cas’s way.

“Watch and learn.”

He smooths the crust out like a pro, thinking that if the rent-a-dog falls through, he’ll try his hand at a bakery next.  Cas watches him like a hawk, clearly trying to commit every movement to memory.

Dean has made a pie for every birthday and holiday for nearly ten years now.  His hands move without really thinking about it.  He has more space here than he would ever have in the apartment. 

“Where’d you learn to make pies?” Cas asks, leaning over his shoulder a little bit.

“My mom.”

Mom had never really gotten the chance to actually teach him anything, but Dean had spent enough time perched on the counter while she baked to pick up on certain things.  After she’d died, he’d found one of her recipe books shoved in the back of a cabinet and decided to use it.

“She bakes?”

“Not anymore.”

“Oh.”  Silence.  “I’m sorry.”

Cas’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder for the barest of moments before dropping back down.  Dean hastily returns to his pie crust.  He’s been getting the _Oh, I’m sorry_ s for eighteen years now.  If he’s honest, he’s tired of it.

“Here, start cutting out the lattice strips,” he says, guiding Cas’s hands back to the dough.

Together, they read through the recipe (which Cas had printed off the internet, much to Dean’s disgust).  Dean is leaning over the counter, trying to measure out the water for the artificial filling when something hits him in the back of the neck.

When he turns around, Cas is grinning at him, hand positively covered in flour.  It takes all of four seconds for Dean to process.  One, he’s been attacked, two, screw professionalism.  In one quick movement, he scoops his own flour up and chucks it at Cas’s head.

He emerges from the cloud of flour with hair more grey than brown, carrying a spoon with filling in it.  Dean barely manages to duck in time.  That would have been a pain to get out.

“Does this mean war?” he asks, jerking a pan off of the counter.

Cas’s only response is to yank a towel down and swing it over his head like it was a helmet.

When they’re finished, they’re both positively covered in flour.

* * *

The address this time is different.  Rumsfeld perks up in confusion as Dean pulls past Cas’s house and keeps going.  The dog yips forlornly, but thankfully doesn’t try to go through the window or something stupid like that.  Dean doesn’t know quite what to make of it himself.  He would have thought Cas would tell him if he’s moving, but this call had definitely come from him.

Not that Dean now recognizes his voice in less than three seconds flat or anything.  That would be unprofessional.

After about fifteen minutes of driving, they pull up in front of a house that couldn’t be more different than Cas’s.  It’s neat and orderly and frankly, Dean’s a little uncomfortable with it.  He walks up to the front door with Rumsfeld bounding along beside him and is greeted before he even makes it up the front steps.

“Hi!”

The little girl bursts out of the house, Cas hard on her heels.  She drops to her knees next to Rumsfeld and lets him slobber all over her. Dean still doesn’t understand dog people.

“This is Claire,” Cas explains, putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “She’s my niece.”

Dean does a quick overview of Cas’s family in his head and decides that Claire has to be Anna’s daughter, because he’s pretty sure she isn’t Gabriel’s. 

“You’re right.  He _is_ cute,” Claire says earnestly.

Though, she’s looking at Dean when she says it, so Dean wonders if she’s talking about the dog after all.  Then, he mentally slaps himself because he’s supposed to be a professional.

“Do I have to sign something for her, too?” Cas asks, jerking him out of the moment.

Dean glances down at Rumsfeld. “Um.  I don’t think he’ll bite?”

Claire, giggling, reaches down to pet him.  Rumsfeld starts licking her face.  They probably aren’t going to have a problem.

“I won’t say anything if you won’t,” he tells Cas.

They end up at the park, with Claire and Rumsefeld chasing each other through the grass.  Cas and Dean sit on a park bench not too far away and watch, Dean a little apprehensive that the dog will turn on her.

He doesn’t think so.  But then, he’s still not sure how he feels about dogs.

“Anna is always so busy,” Cas says suddenly, no prompting “So I try to help Claire out when I can.  But I don’t know if I’m a good role model.  I mean, my only friend is the guy who brings the dog I don’t actually own to my house five days a week.”

Dean freezes.  Friend.  Yeah, of course. He should be perfectly happy with that description.  They’ve only known each other for a few weeks, so of course.  Besides, it’s actually an honor, right?  So why does it feel like someone kicked all the air out of his lungs?

“You’re there,” Dean says with a shrug, remembering long nights sitting up with Sam, waiting for the front door to open and never getting any payoff. “So I think you’re doing a great job.”

Cas smiles at that.

“Thank you.  I think I needed to hear that.”

* * *

Dean guesses that being on the New York Times’ bestseller list gives you more than enough money, because Cas keeps hiring him through September and into November and then December, too.  He starts taking less hours at Bobby’s; Bobby thinks he’s going home and resting a bit more or working on his stalled degree at the community college, and Dean will do pretty much whatever he can to maintain the illusion.

Jo hasn’t sold him out yet, anyway, so he supposes his luck is going better than usual.

Sam starts to call less and less; what were once daily chats turn to weekly and then again to bi-weekly.  Sam seems to have joined every club that Stanford has to offer, Dean’s proud of him for putting himself out there, but he suspects it might have something more to do with that girl he met, Jessica, than anything else.

Even with all of those changes, Rumsfeld stays pretty much the same.  He seems to begrudgingly put up with Dean as the means of getting him wherever he needs to go, but he adores Castiel more than the Bacon Bits Dean now keeps in his trunk in the hopes of getting him to like him.  More afternoons than not, Cas picks Claire up from the bus stop.  Cas sits at the kitchen table with the dying sun silhouetting him as he hunts for each key on the keyboard.  Dean sits at the counter with Claire and helps her with the homework she’s accumulated over the day, half remembering flares of frantically tearing through Sammy’s math book for the next day’s lesson so he could help with his kid brother’s math homework the next night.  Claire’s in the first grade, though, so there isn’t a lot to worry about on that front.

He still helps Cas out with the occasional missing word.  The project is still top secret—Dean can’t even guess it from the few loose threads he’s heard from Cas.  The New York Times culture editor seems to think Cas is hard at work at a sequel to False Heaven, not that Dean has a notification set up on his desktop for whenever the words ‘Castiel Novak’ show up on the Internet or anything because that would be creepy.

They’re walking through Cas’s garden one day in mid-December.  It still looks pretty to Dean, even if anything except the singular pine tree in the corner of the yard is long-dead.  They have to wade through piles of the crunchiest leaves Dean has ever seen in his life every time they want to take Rumsfeld for a walk.

Cas steps directly in his path. Dean nearly runs him over.  Then he realizes that their noses are less than an inch apart.  Funny.  He’d always thought Cas was shorter than him, but the difference is smaller than he’d thought.

“I finished the book.”

Dean’s heart plunges until it’s located somewhere between his feet.  He swallows, hard, waiting for the inevitable—Cas doesn’t need him or the dog anymore, now that his writers’ block is finally cleared.

“Dean, I—um—”

Dean doesn’t actually ever figure out who starts the kiss.  His hands stay dumbly at his sides in shock as Cas’s come up so his fingers can thread through Dean’s hair.  But then, just as abruptly as it had started, Cas pulls back, a look of horror on his face.

“You—you should go.” He scrabbles, the leash tangled around his wrist, to hand Rumsfeld off. “I—you should go.”

Dean is left standing in the backyard with a dog on a leash.

* * *

“Wait, what?”

Charlie rolls her eyes as she taps something into her laptop. “Yeah.  It happens sometimes.  All the dogs are rescues, so I’m always happy to see then go to a good home.”

At his feet, Rumsfeld wags his tail.  Dean subconsciously tightens his grip on the leash.  Maybe he’s grown to like the dog more than he’d care to admit.

“But you spent all this time training him!”

Charlie puts a hand on his shoulder. “Dean.  Rumsfeld is eight.  He deserves a break.  And if Castiel wants to adopt him for good, I’m not opposed.  You’ve always said he and Rumsfeld have a good relationship in your reports.  Is that not true?”

Dean sighs. “No.  I mean, yeah.  He really likes Cas.  And I know he’ll be happy there.”

He knows there’s no arguing with Charlie when she gets like this, so he bundles Rumsfeld into the Impala and heads out.

“I guess they’re going to match me up with someone else now,” Dean tells the dog as they pull on to Castiel’s street.

He still has a kiss tingling on his lips and feelings he doesn’t know quite how to squash down.  More than anything, he wishes Sam were at home waiting for him right now with that therapist look on his face, ready to psychoanalyze him within an inch of his life.

Rumsfeld actually makes a whining noise in the back of his throat as if he can tell somehow that this time is different than the ones before.  When Dean gets out of his car, he takes the blanket with him.  Rumsfeld trots along beside him up to the door.

When Cas opens his door, the same sort of horrified look crosses his face.  Dean sort of wants to melt into a puddle and drain through the cracks in the porch.

“I’m sorry.  I thought they’d send someone else with Rumsfeld.  Do you have the papers I need to sign?”

Dean fishes around in his bag for the papers Charlie handed him back at the headquarters.

“Here.”

Cas fills it out, the same crease forming in his forehead as when he couldn’t find the right word.  Dean’s heart feels like it’s going to burst with how painful the familiarity is.

“Do you mind if I say goodbye to him?”

He’d never thought he’d be emotional about this day.  Of course, in Dean’s imagining, he’d been skipping out on the dog to finally go join Sam in California.

“Can I just say something to you, first?”

Dean prepares himself for a very painful five minutes.

“Um.  Yeah.  Go ahead.”

Cas drags his fingers through his hair. “I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have kissed you.  I know the only reason you were around all the time was your job, and I should have never taken advantage of that.  I’m sorry.”

Wait.  What?

“Taken advantage?”

Cas, if possible, flushes a deeper shade of red. “The kiss.”

Wait a minute.

“Cas.  _I_ kissed _you_ , not the other way around.”

Cas blinks at him. “You what?”

Something is beginning to expand in his chest, a weird mix of relief and giddy happiness.  Dean’s face breaks into a smile.

“You mean you wanted it too?”

Cas stares at him. “I—I still do.”

And then they just stand there, two morons on a porch with the weirdest sort of miscommunication Dean has ever experienced in a life full of miscommunication.

“I still want to adopt Rumsfeld,” Cas says. “But I want you around.  I mean, if that’s all right.”

Dean’s kiss answers that question.

They don’t break apart until Rumsfeld barks, as if to say _idiots._

 

 

 

 


End file.
